Alan MacLeese, R.I.P.

Al MacLeese, a Flint journalist in an era when jobs and good times were plentiful, died recently in Maine. Known for his storytelling and his "MacLeese Unleashed" column, MacLeese received an eloquent sendoff from Roger Van Noord on MLive:

"After serving four years in the Navy during the Korean War, he began his newspaper career at the Miami Herald, followed by work at more than two-dozen other newspapers across the country, from San Francisco to Boston, some of them more than once as he was hired and fired -- or never showed up for work.

"As MacLeese once put it: Some of the papers 'I cannot recollect offhand, and who doubtless cannot recollect me, given the brevity of my loyal service.'

"He began work at The Journal in 1968 and stayed far longer than he had at any other paper. He told about being hired at the Journal earlier in the 1960s, then not ever showing up in the newsroom because he was off on a drinking spree. Despite that disappearance, the Journal hired him again, perhaps a testament to his abilities as a copy editor.

"He served as the Journal’s copy desk chief and also as columnist, 'MacLeese Unleashed.' He told stories, and wrote frankly about his experiences and his demons, with wit and a highly personal style."

Go here to read the rest. It's worth it.

Sentimental Journey

The stage of the Capitol Theater in better days.

A reflection on Flint from Pat McFarlane Young, born at Hurley Hospital on November 2, 1930. It was originally posted on November 7, 2007, and it's one of my favorites on Flint Expatriates.

A stranger traveling through Flint today would, in all probability, view it as a rather dreary, gray, nondescript city filled with abandoned factories, boarded up buildings, and streets in need of repair. It certainly doesn’t have the charm of San Francisco or the excitement of New York, but I still see Flint through the eyes of my youth.

I often have an acute attack of melancholy thinking of my school days at Central High. My thoughts drift to 1945 and the school grounds teeming with students on their lunch hour, sitting on the lawn or hanging around Lloyd’s Drug Store, hiding their cigarettes in cupped hands. If I hurried I could run downtown for a coke at Pinecrest, a tiny lunch counter in the Capitol Theater Building. It was a hangout for the so called “400,” a faction everyone wanted desperately to belong to. I felt that my presence there would somehow make me belong as if by osmosis — a theory soon disproved by the chosen few.

After school I studied in the old Public Library, standing like a fortress at Kearsley and Clifford Streets. It was full of enchanting nooks and crannies with mysterious, narrow stairways where I sat and hid for hours in the world of books. I’m sure the new library offers many more advantages, but never again will I be able to escape in such a belletristic atmosphere.

I grew up on the Eastside and recall the unexplained pride I felt when the 3:30 Buick factory whistle blew and the roughly dressed workers poured out of the General Motors labyrinth swinging their lunch pails. Some were headed for home and some for the corner bar, but all with the determined step of an army after a battle won. I somehow felt as if I were a part of this giant assembly line and the city it fed.

Saturday night was an exciting climax to the week. I sometimes spent the evening surrounded by rainbows of shimmering colored light bouncing off the ceiling and walls like ping pong balls as couples swayed gently to the music. A psychedelic happening? No, only Saturday night at the IMA during the big band era. The World War II melodies of “Moonlight Cocktail” and “Sentimental Journey” were perfect accompaniments for the mood of the times.

Nostalgia, I’m sure, is the opiate of old age. Memories over ten years old automatically become the “good ol’ days." We remember only the happy things and leave the shaded areas behind. And yet, faintly sifting through the sands of time, I seem to recall saying, "The day I’m eighteen, I’m leaving this town."

Flint Post: 1965 Buick Skylark Hardtop Coupe

Flint Photos: Sit-Down Strike Orchestra

Flint: What's in a Name?

Will a name change help Flint Township's dismal economic outlook and bolster its reputation? Chuck Hughes, a former township treasurer who works for the Flint School District, thinks that freeing the township from the shackles of the word "Flint" will certainly help.


"I think the issues with Flint are Flint's issues, and they are made Flint Township's by simply having Flint in the name," he told Roberto Acosta of MLive. "We're at the mercy of Flint to fix their image."


A name change committee has been formed, and any change would have to be approved by the township committee and voters. 


Of course, there's a strong argument that Flint's economic vitality during the boom years is the only reason Flint Township even exists in its present form, but a sense of history doesn't seem to be part of this debate. (Hughes salary, by the way, comes from a city of Flint entity.)


Some of the possible names being floated include West Point and Bishop, a nod to the airport. (I'm surprised West Pointe, with that all-important silent 'e' wasn't suggested.) Do readers have any other ideas? How about Fair Weather Friend Township?

Flint Artifacts: Soap Box Derby Button

Flint Photos: Riding for the Tigers

Joyce Mason, a student at Flint Junior College, pledged to ride this ferris wheel in July of 1959 until the Detroit Tigers reached 1st place in the American League or the park shut down for Labor Day. Not sure how it all turned out. Anyone know?

Flint Photos: Kiln at DeWaters Art Center...

Flint Photos: Innovative Security Measures

You can still own a house with a white picket fence in Flint.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Writer Jan Worth-Nelson has the uncanny ability to capture the contradictions of life in Flint. I was reminded of this when I read two of her recent columns in East Village Magazine. In one column she reflects on a theme that all Flint residents have wrestled with at one point or another: what would my life be like if I lived somewhere else?

Most of us veteran Flintoids, especially those of us who came from somewhere else and thus can only regard our lives here as a matter of "choice," go through phases of exasperation and regret.

We all have our Flint sweet spots, griefs and vindications. We make them, we find them and we cherish them with recurring dollops of hope.

In another, she muses on the implications of drummers in downtown Flint:

The other afternoon a couple of friends and I were on our way to 501 Grille when we spied two drummers at the corner of Saginaw and First streets under the terra cotta American eagles of what used to be First National Bank.

From a distance it sounded like amateur auditions for a Fourth of July parade but it was only late April.  Still I admit there was something pleasantly odd and rousing about it.

Hmm ... drumming on street corners. My friends and I considered. Is this a good thing? Or is this something worrisomely earnest, like awkwardly hopeful murals sprouting up on abandoned walls?

Since we were in an optimistic mood anticipating our first glass of wine of the day, we decided it was a good sign. Buskers, we've got buskers, just like Washington Square Park in New York, Dupont Circle in D.C., and Ghirardelli Square in San Francisco.

Flint is a complicated place, and it's good to know there are writers working to capture the nuance of a city that is often dismissed as nothing more than an economic catastrophe.